


Telescope

by doctor__idiot



Series: SPN Kink Bingo 2017 [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x12 "About a Boy", Alternate Ending, Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, De-Aged Dean Winchester, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Kind of Underage, M/M, Supernatural Kink Bingo 2017, Top Dean, Top Sam, Virginity, major fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 17:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: Sam stares at his brother in his baggie hoodie with the rolled-up up sleeves and he wants to cry.





	Telescope

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN Kink Bingo](http://spnkinkbingo.tumblr.com) square "Virginity". This really fucking got away from me. I have no excuse.
> 
> For the purpose of this fic, Dean was not changed back at the end of 10x12 About a Boy.

Sam stares at his brother in his baggie hoodie with the rolled-up up sleeves and he wants to cry.

Dean is looking a little lost himself, trying to put on a brave facade for Sam’s benefit — always the big brother even now that he’s tiny — but it’s obvious to Sam that it’s an act.

Dean is terrified.

Sure, the mark on his arm is gone, that’s a plus, but Sam couldn’t be farther from relief. He runs his fingers through his hair, eyes still on Dean, who’s shifting from his left foot to his right and shooting glances toward the Impala.

Sam knows his brother is two seconds away from realizing that it will be at least another year until he can drive his baby again, and he quickly clears his throat to diffuse the arising panic.

“We should get out of here.” His voice is too thin but it draws Dean’s attention.

He kicks at a pebble, shrugs, all teenager stubbornness. “Sure.”

Sam can’t breathe properly while they’re in the car. It doesn’t feel right to be behind the wheel when Dean is in there with him. It’s strange to have him on his right instead of checking glances to the left. It’s surreal.

“You hungry?” he asks and sees Dean shaking his head out of the corner of his eye.

Dean stays quiet for the entire drive, staring out the window, not looking at Sam once.

When they unlock the door to the bunker, he finally speaks up. “This ain’t bad, y’know?” He’s dragging his vowels, slurring his words like always, but his voice is too high. It’s got that underlying pitch of panic and puberty-related vocal change.

“How?” It’s a question Sam can’t manage to keep inside.

Dean turns too him, green eyes wide and young, so young, smooth face clenched tight with anger and frustration. “Don’t have to worry about the Mark now, do we?”

Sam shakes his head, less agreement and more ‘I don’t give a shit about the stupid Mark’. Eyes squeezes shut, he runs a shaky hand over his mouth.

“I need a drink.” It’s something he hasn’t said in a long time and Dean shoots him a look.

“What should I say?” he returns but it’s rhetorical. Sam sure as hell isn’t going to tell his thirty-six-year-old brother he can’t drink, fourteen-year-old body or not.

“This is too weird,” he mutters under his breath, didn’t mean for Dean to hear, but his brother crosses his skinny arms in front of his chest.

“I repeat: What should I say?” Still rhetorical.

He’s holding up surprisingly well, although Sam is sure that it’s more or less for his benefit. Dean can’t possibly be okay with being damned to go through the majority of his teenage years all over again.

He shakes his head again, unable to deal with this now, and descends down the steps, leaving his brother in his sneakers and his baseball cap at the top of the stairs.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, Sam knocks on Dean’s door. It’s almost midnight but the probability that Dean is already asleep is practically nil.

“Yeah?” comes Dean’s new-old voice from the inside even though he knows it can only be Sam. There’s no one else here. And isn’t that the dilemma? Sam sure could use someone to talk to, and he bets Dean could, too.

That reminds him of why he’s standing in front of Dean’s door, barefoot and in his pajama bottoms, in the first place.

He pushes the door open, greeted by the dim light from the nightstand lamp and Dean’s tousled boyish head of hair. The scowl on his face, however, is the same as always and it serves to calm Sam’s nerves a bit.

“Hey,” he starts, like a in idiot, “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I was a dick earlier. This’s gotta be harder for you than it is for me. It’s just—”

He breaks off because Dean has already tilted his head in invitation. Sam slinks into the room, closing the door with the sole of his foot.

“How’re you doing?” he asks, expecting a brush-off.

He isn’t disappointed. Dean shrugs his newly narrow shoulders. “Fine, I guess. Not like I can change it now anyway.”

Sam sinks to the edge of the mattress, next to Dean’s blanket-covered legs. He’s still the same, Sam knows that, but it’s hard to remember when Dean feels so small, all lanky limbs like Sam remembers from being that age and soft hands. His voice is too sweet, his skin too smooth, and every time Sam touches him he’s scared of breaking something.

Dean has never been fragile, started accompanying their father on hunts when he was younger than he looks now, but it feels that way to Sam anyway.

He lifts his hand on instinct to put it on Dean’s knee but then changes his mind and lets it drop to the bed. Dean’s eyes follow the motion, aware of the initial intention. He’s got a wrinkle in the middle of his forehead, brows drawn together, but he doesn’t say anything.

Sam coughs. “I’m—We’re gonna find a way to change you back. There’s gotta be something in all those books out there.” He makes a motion toward their library. “Otherwise, what’d the use of owning all that stuff?”

He tries a smile but Dean doesn’t go for it.

“Sam,” he says, sounding exactly like Sam’s _old_ older brother, “I don’t want you to treat me differently just because—” He licks his lips, helpless. “Just because. I can hunt, I have the same memories, I’m _me_ , okay?”

Sam swallows. He knows all that.

“My legs might be too short to drive a car right now and I’m gonna have to work—work through some things,” Dean looks down then and Sam isn’t sure he knows what he means by that, “But I’m still the same guy.”

Sam nods because it’s all he can do. Dean’s eyes are searching his face for something, some sort of confirmation that he’s getting through and that Sam is going to _try_ , and Sam does place his hand on Dean’s thigh then, a show of faith. It feels strange to do, Dean’s legs skinny and soft under his palm but it makes Dean smile.

 

They manage, for the most part. Or Dean manages, that is.

It took him a while to figure out his new-not-new body and he actually got a kick out of the fact that he can disassemble and re-assemble his gun even faster now without the hindrance of crooked fingers that have been fractured too many times. His gun arm is steadier now, no broken collarbone getting in the way.

He can still run as fast, still has no chance of catching up to Sam’s long legs. Nothing new there.

He’s not as strong, obviously, but he’s quicker on his feet now, nimble, and he still knows all the dirty tricks. Still, there’s no way he’ll beat Sam at sparring any time soon. He found that out the hard way, a flush in his cheeks and his too-long hair hanging into his eyes as he breathlessly had to concede defeat against Sam’s long arms.

The first thing he did after that was chop his hair off, shaving it short like he had it before, while Sam was standing in the door frame, still laughing.

The familiar haircut made something in Sam settle.

He keeps a much closer eye on his brother during hunts now and it annoys the shit out of Dean even if he understands. Hell will freeze over before he admits it, though.

In fact, Sam’s protective instinct has sky-rocketed over the past week and it’s an unfamiliar feeling for him.

So yeah, Dean manages. Sam, not so much.

The sparring practice with all its touching really takes it out of him. It’s not that Dean is a worthy opponent, he _isn_ ’ _t_ , it’s that all those pointy elbows and sharp bones make him uncomfortable. Sam is so much bigger it’s obscene. Dean looks like a fucking child and Sam still wants—

Still wants.

Sam’s half-sure Dean knows, can smell it on him somehow. He’d have to be dumb and blind to miss it and Dean is neither.

Sam tells himself that it’s Dean’s brain that he’s attracted to — same brain, different body — and that he’s confused right now but Dean is still familiar.

But that’s not all there is to it and it’s difficult to ignore when it’s staring Sam right in the face in the form of his big brother who’s got the same smirk and the same eyes but walks differently, smoother somehow, holds himself prouder. Who keeps shooting those glances at Sam from time to time that might just mean that he knows what Sam is thinking. And that he doesn’t care.

Sam can’t help but wonder what it would be like to take _this_ Dean to bed, to strip him naked and cup his perfect little ass in his palms. He wonders if Dean’s shoulder blades are as sharp as they look, if Sam would feel them dig into his chest if he got Dean into his lap, thin creamy-white thighs splayed over Sam’s, and, god, the noises he’d make. All high and needy, girly pitch, driving Sam insane.

He wonders if Dean would even weigh anything if he picked him up and threw him onto his bed. He’s probably small enough that Sam could lift him easily onto his hips while lying down, onto his cock, and Dean wouldn’t even have to ride Sam himself, Sam could do all the work for him—

“Hey ho, earth to Sam!” Dean is flicking his fingers in front of Sam’s nose, a disgruntled expression marring his youthful face. His face that’s decidedly flushed. So maybe Sam isn’t as inconspicuous as he hoped to be. His dick sure as hell isn’t.

He clears his throat, leaning forward in his chair to hide his erection but Dean isn’t fooled.

“If you’re done ogling me, maybe we could get to work and find out how to change me back so I won’t be stuck in Home Alone forever.”

His words are all snark but he’s a little breathless and a thought pushes into Sam’s mind, unwelcome and intrusive, and he doesn’t have a way of stopping it from morphing into words.

“Are you a virgin?” he asks and Dean’s eyes widen almost comically.

“What the—” He rubs the tip of his nose. “What’ve you been smoking, Sammy? You know I fucking ain’t.”

“Your body, your, uh … When you were that age, I mean, you were a virgin.” It’s a statement now, no longer a question, and Sam isn’t sure why he started this in the first place.

“Well,” Dean says, “duh. Of course I was, you know I was. But I’m not now, so what even—”

Sam tilts his head, eyes focused on his fidgety brother. “But you are,” he insists, “Your body is.”

“That’s—” Dean shakes his head. “That’s not what counts. It’s a—a mental thing or whatever. Besides, it’s not important anyway.”

“Right, and what was that about being ‘re-hymenated’ after Hell?”

Dean’s eyes bulge. “That’s—That was a joke. C’mon, seriously.”

“Then why are you being weird about it?”

“ _You_ ’ _re_ the one who started it. _You_ ’ _r_ e being weird about it.”

Sam stays quiet then because he can’t deny that his brother has a point. It’s just that … right here, right now, with Dean standing less than a few feet in front of him, squirming and blushing like a—well, a teenager, all Sam wants to do is wreck and ruin.

He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m just,” he waves a hand, “kind of in a mood today.”

Dean mutters something that sounds like ‘Always in a mood, bitch’ but it’s not all that hostile and it actually sort of makes Sam smile. It’s safe. It’s normal. Everything he doesn’t feel right now.

 

By the time he looks up from his laptop screen his eyes are stinging with dryness and exhaustion and he’s got a crick in his neck. He massages the tense muscles and stretches out his back. Summer has begun and despite its underground location the bunker can’t counteract the Kansas heat all by itself. Sam’s overshirt is hanging draped over the chair next to his and his thin T-shirt is already sticking to his skin in several places.

He desperately needs a shower and some sleep. Not that he got any work done because he found precisely zero on how to undo … whatever that witch did to Dean. It should just be a simple age-reverse spell — as simple as those can be — but when has anything in their lives ever been simple?

Sam closes his eyes and leans his head back, cracking his neck left to right. The quiet cough from the other end of the table nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

“Christ! Don’t do that.”

Dean shrugs. He’s always been stealthy and he can’t help it that he weighs practically nothing now. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

“Yeah, I was…” Sam waves at his computer, then clicks it closed. “There’s just nothing.”

Dean makes a humming noise that could be agreement or shared sentiment or … something else. It’s difficult to tell these days. Maybe his currently boyish face isn’t as easy to read for Sam or Sam is just too distracted most of the time.

Even though — or maybe because _—_ it’s the middle of the night and he’s bone-tired and in no shape to pretend, Dean’s slender silhouette is getting to him. How his thin fingers are curled around the back of a chair as he’s standing there, uneasy, dressed in only a tee and boxer shorts, and he holds himself stiffly as if all the aches and pains of the thirty-six years he’s put his body through were actually present. In that moment, at least until Sam blinks, he looks his true age.

“You going to bed?” Sam asks, voice hoarse from disuse, from sitting in silent half-darkness for hours, and Dean’s too-green eyes meet his.

“Yeah,” he says and it sounds heavy, like he’s saying more than just that single word that makes it out of his mouth. He licks his lips and Sam’s gaze is immediately drawn to the motion.

It probably wasn’t even intentional, Dean isn’t the kind to premeditate these kind of things, but he definitely knows how to take advantage of them when they do occur. He rounds the table in short strides, bare feet nearly soundless on the wooden floorboards, and he looks even smaller when he’s standing right in front of Sam. They’re almost even heights now and Sam is sitting down.

It’s madness.

Dean clears his throat and reaches for Sam and Sam’s reaction is strange. His first impulse is to reach right back, pull Dean in, but as soon as he can see how tiny Dean’s hand would look in his, he flinches away, overwhelmed by the sick coil in his gut, making him so dizzy that he has to grip the handles of the chair.

Dean slips into his lap, easy as pie, or at least that’s what it looks like. Sam swears he can hear Dean’s erratic heart beat in the space between them, but maybe that’s just his own pulse pounding, his own blood rushing in his ears.

Dean’s eyes are cast down as he balances on Sam’s thighs. There is almost no hair on his bare legs and Sam makes a choked noise.

“You know,” Dean starts, playing with the hem of Sam’s shirt, and he’s all fourteen-year-old now, child-like and lost, “When you asked me earlier about—about the virgin shit,” he grins wryly, “it got me thinkin’.”

Sam jerks when Dean’s fingers brush his bare skin above the waistband of his jeans.

“I’s wonderin’ if,” Dean licks his lips again and this time it might actually be on purpose, “it’d feel different, you know. Just—I’d like to know what it’d feel like. Now, I mean.”

He isn’t making much sense but Sam knew what he was going to say before Dean even opened his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, against Dean’s words and his wandering hands, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the chair.

“Come on,” Dean says, lighter now, voice still too high. There’s no way to tell if he’s flirting or pleading. Maybe both. God, Sam is so hard it’s almost painful. And there is absolutely no way Dean can’t feel it.

Dean leans in. In until Sam can feel his warm breath against his jaw. He keeps his eyes shut because if he opened them right now—

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean repeats, whisper-quiet, “I know you want to. Wanted to since you saw me like this, right from the get-go.”

Sam blinks his eyes open, wants to deny the truth of it, wants to say he’s sorry, to apologize for being such a sick fuck, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Nothing but a quiet moan and Dean smiles.

He goads, “That’s it, baby,” a hot brush of breath against Sam’s mouth, “Want you like you want me. Want you to fuck me like this.”

There’s only so much Sam can take and clearly he’s reached his limit. Dean realizes it the same moment Sam does and his mouth curls into a smirk that looks crude on his young face. Sam’s got his arm around Dean’s waist and his lips on his brother’s before either of then can blink.

Dean makes a slightly surprised but happy noise and fastens his fingers in Sam’s hair. He’s light on top of Sam, all smooth warm skin, and Sam hooks his thumbs into the back of Dean’s waistband, dragging his nails along the top of Dean’s ass. Goosebumps rise under his touch and Dean shivers, gives a quiet whine into Sam’s mouth.

He tastes the same, spit and beer and chewing gum, and it’s a fucking relief. He almost smells the same, too, less leather and more baby powder, but Sam thinks he could get used to it.

And he could definitely get used to this, too, hoisting Dean up against his front as he stands, hands under the swell of Dean’s ass.

Dean laughs into his shoulder. “You’re liking your new position as big tough guy a little too much, me thinks,” he says, nuzzling Sam’s cheek as he’s being carried down the hallway, and Sam huffs.

“I’ve always been bigger.”

Dean looks up at him then, something in his eyes telling Sam that his words hit a mark, and it’s not the one Sam expected. It’s not misplaced frustration over nature’s decision to make him the older but the shorter one that Sam finds there.

It’s desire, pure and simple — or maybe not pure at all but still fairly simple — and Sam shoulders his way through the door to his room and drops Dean to the bed before crawling over him.

He expects Dean to roll his eyes when he asks, “You really sure about this?” but Dean just stares up at him, spit-shiny lips and long lashes, with his cheeks flushed and it only occurs to Sam after a moment that Dean might actually be shy about this.

It’s not exactly an adjective that Sam thought he’d ever use in context with his brother. He leaves the question hanging there und attaches his mouth to the line of Dean’s slender next, kissing his protruding collar bone, all the while keeping his touch light and caressing, allowing Dean time to gather himself.

“Yeah,” comes the breathy answer after a moment’s hesitation, “Yeah, ‘m sure.”

Sam hums against Dean’s chest as he pushes up Dean’s shirt, tongue flicking out against the pink stub of a nipple and Dean curses, his hands tugging on Sam’s hair. His legs are spread wide on either side of Sam’s body, making room for him that shouldn’t be there.

Dean is vibrating beneath him, flat belly fluttering as Sam wanders lower, peeling back Dean’s underwear.

Dean’s hand shoots out against Sam’s shoulder, “Wait,” and Sam freezes. Dean’s breathing is rapid, pupils blown, and Sam realizes like a punch to his stomach that Dean is two seconds away from coming despite the fact that Sam has barely touched him. His fourteen-year-old body is betraying him and it might just be the hottest thing Sam’s ever been a part of.

He dips back down, nuzzles Dean’s abdomen, and wets his mouth. Drags it across the front of Dean’s boxers, wet tongue massaging his straining cock through the fabric.

Dean spills a little cry, “Sam, please _,_ ” turning it into a moan as he writhes against Sam’s grip. It is no difficult feat to hold him down and soon he’s shuddering under Sam, drawing up his knees against Sam’s sides as if he’s trying to close them, shield himself from being on display, being vulnerable, as he comes in his underwear.

“You asshole,” he heaves, the flush on his cheeks and neck deepening with misplaced embarrassment.

“What?” Sam shoots back, “You think I’m only gonna make you come once tonight?”

Dean looks at him, still strung out and slightly astonished. To his credit, he catches himself quickly. He lifts his hips, prompting Sam to take off his soiled underwear. “Well, get to it then.”

Sam snorts but it’s good, it’s familiar, and once Dean is naked and he’s rid himself of his own shirt and jeans, he flips them around so Dean is sitting astride him.

It takes him a second to orient himself, then he drops forward to his elbows with a grin. “Want me to do all the work, huh?”

They both know that’s not what this is. Sam is going to do this at Dean’s pace. Whatever he might argue, he’s still way too … breakable.

Sam doesn’t bother with an answer, just tugs Dean down into a kiss, both of them moaning, and Dean’s always had these plush lips, right from the beginning. Maybe this was around the age Sam first fell in love with his brother.

Dean smirks down at him, “Fine. Watch me then.” He bends over Sam’s shoulder to get at the nightstand drawer and fish out a bottle of lube.

Sam sucks in a breath as Dean drips the liquid over his right hand, spilling some onto Sam’s stomach. It pools in his navel and then Dean braces himself with his other hand against Sam’s chest and reaches back between the cheeks of his own ass.

Callouses against baby-smooth skin, Sam’s fingers briefly flex around Dean’s thighs, just the slightest hint of pressure, and Dean rocks down into his grip, onto his own fingers, and moans, head falling forward.

Sam wishes he could see. God, he’s aching with it, fighting against the desire to throw Dean onto his back, but he promised himself he’d leave it to Dean to move things along. He strokes his fingers up Dean’s side, feather-touch, leaving goosebumps in his wake, and Dean sighs, “Sammy,” voice reverent and unsteady.

His mouth is hanging open as he contorts his wrist to finger himself, opening himself up for the girth of Sam’s cock, small noises escaping him from time to time, almost rhythmically. Sam isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.

“Sammy, please, I need—” Dean says, forehead furrowed in frustration as he’s trying to draw his shoulder far enough back and Sam knows he won’t get that spot inside himself that he’s aching for.

He strokes his hand down Dean’s spine, winding his arm around his waist, and pulls him down onto his chest, “Let me. I’ll take care of you.”

Dean sighs again, slumps bonelessly against him, still hardly a significant weight on top of him. Sam coats his own fingers in lube and knocks his knuckles against Dean’s twisted wrist. “Let me,” he says again, quietly against Dean’s ear.

Dean’s cheek is resting on Sam’s collar bone and Sam can feel his rapid breaths wet-hot against the base of his throat. When he turns his head just that little bit he can press a kiss to Dean’s temple.

Dean’s small hands clutch Sam’s sides and he makes a choked sound when Sam presses two of his bigger, longer fingers into him, locating his prostrate on the first try. Familiar with Dean’s body even now.

“Christ, fuck,” Dean breathes, shuddering, “Been wanting that all week.”

Sam closes his eyes at the admission. He’s half-wishing he could see Dean’s face or watch his own fingers disappear into his brother’s body, tiny untouched hole between pale round cheeks stretching pink over his knuckles. It’s probably best he can’t or he would lose it right then and there.

Dean’s shaky arms wrap around Sam’s neck and he turns his quivering mouth into Sam’s shoulder. “Please, I can’t—oh, _fuck_.” Hips squirming against Sam’s groin, Sam has to bite his lip as he holds Dean and pushes his fingers deeper at the same time, teases with a third.

Dean cries out quietly, muffled, at the next brush over his prostrate and Sam feels him spill wetness between their stomachs. Jerking under Dean, he blurts, “ _Jesus_.”

Dean wiggles in his arms, as if he’s trying to get away, his cheek flaming hot against Sam’s skin, and Sam instinctively shushes him. “Nothing to be ashamed about, baby. Holy fuck, that’s hot.”

There’s a sound that could be a snort or a sob but Dean is pressing closer again, lifting his chin enough to fit soft lips against Sam’s jaw. Sam finally squeezes in that third finger, loosening his hold around Dean when Dean’s body arches in case he wants to move away. But all he does is hold his breath, then expel it on a long, shuddering exhale. His tense muscles unknot and he spreads his legs wider.

Sam keeps his fingers still for the most part, only lightly massages Dean’s stretched rim with his thumb until Dean had a chance to get used to the increased fullness. He unfolds his arm from around Dean’s torso and gently cups his chin, turning his head for a kiss. Dean is breathing hard through his nose, the strain obvious but he barely makes a sound aside from the occasional hitch of breath when Sam moves.

Once his breathing has calmed a little, his tongue gone soft and lazy against Sam’s, Sam angles their hips together again and carefully twists his fingers deeper. Shallow strokes in and out, dragging over Dean’s prostate as much as he can, until Dean is panting and fucking back onto Sam’s hand with eagerness.

“Ready,” he pleads, “God, I’m ready.”

Sam hums, kisses him again, quieting him. His splayed palm on the small of Dean’s back is keeping him from sitting up.

“Come on, Sam, you’re killing me here, _please_.” Dean has never begged more prettily.

With one last nip to his bottom lip, Sam releases him and Dean sits up, grinding down once more for some friction, getting Sam’s fingers deeper one last time with a groan and then he moves away, reaches for the lube again. He pours a generous amount onto Sam’s cock and Sam hisses and slaps Dean’s thigh at the freezing liquid against his overheated skin.

Dean shoots him a shit-eating grin that hasn’t changed one bit between fourteen and thirty-six. He teases Sam at first, just rocking back and forth against the hard line of his dick, and Sam is two seconds away from lifting Dean onto it himself. His fingers curl in the bedspread, refusing to give even an inch.

Maybe Dean isn’t in a particularly teasing mood today, maybe he’s too hungry for it himself, because before Sam can do something rash he rises up on his knees and slowly sinks back down until the head of Sam’s cock catches, breaches his hole, and they both gasp. Dean’s got his palms splayed against Sam’s pectorals, holding himself up, and Sam can see the effort in his trembling thighs.

He slots his own hands underneath the swell of Dean’s ass, supporting him without hurrying. Dean licks his lips, dark eyes focused on Sam. There’s sweat building on his forehead and then his eyes slip closed as he lowers himself farther down.

Keeping his hips flat against the bed, waiting until Dean’s got himself seated without bucking up to meet him — it might just be one of the hardest things Sam’s ever had to do. He manages, but just barely, the back of his head pressed into the pillow with the strain of holding himself still.

Dean gives a breathless laugh through clenched teeth, “You can touch me, y’know. Ain’t gonna break,” but that’s just the thing. He _is._

Sam makes his eyes focus. Shakes his head. “Just—Tell you me you’re okay.”

Dean’s fingertips curl against the tattoo on Sam’s chest. “I’m okay,” he returns and it sounds like the truth despite the pain in his voice, “I swear, I’m okay. Just … gimme a minute.”

He can have all the minutes in the world as far as Sam is concerned as long as he doesn’t stop that little rocking motion he’s probably not even aware of. They’re ass to groin, now, Dean sitting all the way in his lap, and Sam strokes his hands over the curve of Dean’s ass up his sides and over his trembling stomach, soothing away the hurt. Dean reaches for Sam’s hands without looking, intertwines their fingers, and then he lifts himself up with a moan that’s part relief.

He angles his hip on the downslide, arching his back and making it easier for himself to take Sam deeper. The tight clench around his cock means Sam has to use all of his willpower not to end this too soon, especially when Dean shudders and keens because Sam is applying pressure on his prostate with every stroke.

Dean is moving slow, so slow, and the next time he sinks all the way down, Sam can’t help the way his hips shoot up, seeking more of that vice-like heat.

Dean hiccups, digs his nails into the back of Sam’s hands. “God, fuck—fucking _huge_ , little brother.”

Maybe it’s the ‘little brother’ that does it, or Dean’s acknowledgement that he’s in pain, but in any case something snaps in Sam and he pulls out of Dean’s grip, pushing up from the bed until he’s sitting, with Dean in his lap, legs spread on either side of Sam’s hips. He smoothes his palms around Dean’s back, hugging him to his chest, and Dean makes a surprised noise, then winds his skinny arms around Sam’s shoulders.

“Come on,” he urges quietly. He has to stretch up to speak next to Sam’s ear. “I’m good, I promise. Let me have it, baby, give it to me, come on.”

And Sam is only human, if even that, and that’s all he can handle. His hands are gripping Dean’s hips before his brain has even filtered through everything, and he takes most of Dean’s weight as Dean pushes up the next time, hanging onto Sam’s shoulders and trusting him to keep him upright.

Sam leans in, biting at his brother’s mouth, and Dean’s right there, meeting him head-on, retaliating with his own teeth and nails that are digging into Sam’s shoulder blades, and they find a rhythm. It’s still fairly slow, long strokes up and down Sam’s cock with Dean’s smaller one trapped between their bodies and he comes for the third time tonight when Sam nudges back his chin and bites at his neck.

Dean whines, whimpers, little ‘oh shit, oh fuck’s punched from his sweet mouth and he rides Sam faster. He comes again, a fourth time, when Sam finally does, too.

It takes them longer than usual to catch their breath, Sam still holding Dean against him, reluctant to let go of him and let the cool room air chill their skin. Dean hums his contentment into the crook of Sam’s neck, hair tickling Sam’s chin, and Sam finds himself stroking Dean’s back in random patterns.

“Damn,” Dean says finally, on a sigh, and it breaks a small laugh from Sam. Dean’s voice is muffled against his skin, words slurred with exhaustion, “Not bad for my first time, huh?”

Sam’s hand comes to a halt on Dean’s back as he’s figuring out the words. He can feel himself flush hot when he realizes Dean is shooting at Sam’s ‘virgin’ remark earlier.

He coughs to hide his reaction but Dean just laughs.

 

They fall asleep tired and sticky, neither bothering to take a shower or get dressed, and when Sam wakes up the space next to him is empty.

There are footsteps behind him, heavier than the ones he’s gotten used to from Dean over the past week, and then the bed dips. He slowly reaches under his pillow for the knife that’s always wedged between the mattress and the headboard.

“Relax,” Dean says from behind him, “‘s just me.”

The tension seeps from Sam’s body and he’s about to burrow back into the pillow when the deep voice registers with his sleep-hazy brain.

Dean’s voice.

He sits up so fast his head spins but he doesn’t care because even through the spots dancing before his eyes he can see his brother, his beautiful _older_ brother, who looks every single one of his thirty-six years, and Sam thinks he’s never looked better.

“What—” he starts, “How? I mean—”

He shakes his head because it’s not important, not right now. He doesn’t fucking care. All he fucking cares about—

He lunges for Dean and wraps his arms around him, pulling him down to the mattress against his own body, throwing a leg over Dean’s thighs as he kisses him hard, relief and giddy joy overtaking him.

“God, I fucking missed you,” he breathes between kisses and Dean gives a hum of agreement. His hands come up to Sam’s shoulders, cupping the curve of them. The inside of his forearm is no longer bare, wine-red Mark of Cain, their own personal Damocles sword, stark against Dean’s freckle-dusted skin. Sam runs his thumb over it but it doesn’t scare him, not right now. Right now he doesn’t care.

He rolls them until Dean is on top of him, kneeling between his legs, and Sam instantly hikes his legs higher on either side of Dean’s body.

“Want you to fuck me,” he says, half an inch from Dean’s mouth, and Dean stills. It isn’t exactly something Sam asks for often.

“Need it, Dean, please,” he adds because for a second it looks like Dean is going to deny him, but Dean’s already got his fingers pressed against Sam’s mouth, quieting him. Then he replaces them with his mouth.

“Yeah, baby, anything you want.” His voice is rough, perfect pitch of whiskey and gravel, and it vibrates all the way through Sam. He stretches for the lube, discarded by the side of the bed, but Sam is faster. He empties it over his hand, reaches between his own legs for his brother’s cock. Dean moans with his eyes closed as Sam slicks him up, fingers tensing against Sam’s sides.

Sam guides him closer, tilting his hips up, and Dean’s hands tighten, “Christ, Sammy, wait,” but Sam is already shaking his head, taking Dean deep without preparation and it’s been a while and it fucking hurts but it’s oh so good. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he revels in the burning stretch and the groan that comes out of Dean’s mouth, followed by, “Fucking hell, _Jesus_.”

“Don’t you dare stop,” he says, legs tightening around Dean, heels digging into the small of his back. They both still once Dean’s bottomed out and Sam gives a small, breathless laugh when Dean brings their mouths and then their foreheads together.

Dean grunts, “Don’t fucking move,” pressing bruises into Sam’s hips and Sam whines, trying to lift up.

“I mean it, Sam.” Dean is trembling above him. “Or I’m going to come right the fuck now.”

That punches another huff of laughter from Sam. He curls his own fingers around Dean’s biceps, just holding on, trying to give both of them the time to adjust.

He whimpers when Dean subtly shifts his hips. “God, please, I’m—I’m ready, I need—oh, _shit_.” His fingers slip on sweaty skin when Dean pulls back, reaching for him automatically, and Dean grabs his hands, pins them to the mattress over Sam’s head as he fucks back in.

“Christ,” Sam moans and lets Dean kiss him, surging up to meet his mouth, lips parting for his brother’s tongue. Dean always kisses like he’s trying to prove something.

“So tight, Sammy, feel so good, _god_.”

Sam nods, arches his back, his hips tilting into every thrust. He squeezes his eyes shut and he just knows that this isn’t going to last long for either of them. “Dean, I—”

“Yeah,” Dean interrupts, bites at his lower lip, “I know. Come on, Sammy, come for me, baby.”

And God help him but Sam does. Without either one of them ever touching his cock. All the tension comes to a head and Dean’s body on top of his is blanketing him perfectly, hard muscles moving against his own, his cock so deep inside of Sam he’s sure he’ll feel it for days. He twists, moans, and spills between them, just before he can feel the warmth of Dean’s own climax inside of him, making him whimper and squirm with how deliciously filthy it feels.

He breathes in deep, knowing he’ll be sore later but not caring, so worth it, and tugs Dean down.

Dean makes a little ‘oof’ sound before a laugh spills out of his mouth, and his weight is all right again, body covering Sam’s as he stretches out on top of him. Sam holds onto him with his arms and legs still crossed over Dean’s ass.

Dean mouths along the line of Sam’s jaw, lazy and affectionate. “Guess you really did miss me,” he says, voice wry but tinged with awe, sweat-damp hair tickling Sam’s skin. “I was right here, Sammy.”

“I know,” Sam hurries to say, “I know. It was just … different.”

Dean licks his lips, looking up at him from under his lashes with a smirk. “Last night I got the impression you liked me different.”

There’s only one interpretation and Sam groans with shame, throwing his forearm across his eyes. “I know. Christ, I’m so sorry, but … it’s not what you think.”

“Hey.” Dean flicks his wrist until Sam removes his arm and looks at him, “No judgement from me.”

It’s genuine enough but it doesn’t do anything to dispel the nauseating coil in Sam’s belly. He wants to explain himself, if only he could find the words to describe what he’s feeling.

“Looking at you,” he begins, “made me remember things. And I guess, I liked being the protector for once. I liked being needed. It’s stupid.”

Dean’s brows draw tight. “You think I don’t need you?”

“Not like that you don’t.”

Dean shakes his head, laughs as if Sam made a joke, as if the entire situation was ridiculous. To be fair, it kind of is. “No, Sammy, god…” He clicks his tongue, looking right at Sam, “I always need you, baby boy, not just because we work together, not just to have my back on hunts. No matter where we are, _what_ we are … there ain’t no changing that.”

The unexpected admission leaves Sam speechless for an entire moment. The corner of Dean’s mouth curls into a self-mocking smile. “I’m sorry you didn’t know that.”

Sam did know it, he thinks, somewhere, buried in a corner of his being he knows this. Sometimes things get so jumbled up it’s difficult to remember. He doesn’t know what to say so he turns his head back into the pillow and strokes some hair away from Dean’s temple.

“What did you remember?”

“Hm?”

Dean’s smile is indulgent. “You said looking at me made you remember something.”

“Oh,” Sam says eloquently, his face promptly heating up, telling Dean without a doubt that he’s hit a mark. “It … made me think about the way it all started, I guess.” He runs his thumb down the dip of Dean’s spine. “How we started. I was … so young but I think I knew back then already. Knew it’d always be you.”

He swallows, letting Dean work through that for himself, expecting a smartass comment or maybe a joke to diffuse the tension of their mutual confessions.

Dean doesn’t make the joke. He doesn’t say anything, in fact, just brushes his index finger against Sam’s cheekbone and then curls his fingers around Sam’s ear, touching him as if in trance.

He finally makes a sound of acknowledgment, then leans down again to kiss Sam, and the kiss makes his point for him. What he can’t say, it’s all there, slow unhurried moving of mouths against each other, just breathing the other in, giving without intent, without expectations.

Sam disentangles their legs and rolls them onto their sides, his arm going around Dean’s midsection, slotting one of his legs between his brother’s.

“And now?” Dean asks quietly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Do we try to find out what broke the curse or do we just leave it be?”

“Could’ve just been a time-thing. It was pretty much a week ago on the dot that you got cursed.” Sam pillows his head in the crook of Dean’s elbow. “I say we take the win.”

“Is it a win, though?” he returns and Sam looks down, his fingers finding the bump of the Mark on Dean’s forearm. Dean flinches slightly as if the touch hurts but the he settles again with a sigh, sliding his arm around Sam in turn.

“We’ll figure it out on our own.” Sam gives him a smile and it isn’t even dishonest right now. All he feels is relief.

Dean hums his agreement and closes his eyes.


End file.
